


manic pixie dream cannibal

by nise_kazura



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Mind Palace, Will is a convenience store cashier, hannibal is the weirdo stranger danger, trippy descriptions, winston is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-11-26 17:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: Will Graham lives an utterly normal, completely mundane, ridiculously insipid life as a convenience store cashier in the midst of a flat, monochrome city. And then one day, the Ripper strikes again. A strange man begins to frequent his shop. A regular begins to ask weird questions.All Will wants to do is live his life in peace—but at what cost?-EDIT: this fic was originally posted on 10/7/2019 with 5k words. however, i have since given it a major overhaul, which is why im updating the publication date.





	manic pixie dream cannibal

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to [grantairesbigadventure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantairesbigadventure) and [FeatheredWendigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheredWendigo) for helping me beta this fic!
> 
> not to mention the wonderful, amazing, lovely [shousanki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shousanki) who puts up with so much of my bullshit it's amazing
> 
> things are bout to get a little trippy in here folks, i hope ur ready lol

The buildings are all uniform. Flat. Clinically Bauhaus.

Will likes it. The uniformity, that is. The clean white of the sidewalks, the paleness of the stucco walls, the faintly green tint of the windows.

It is austere. Minimalistic. Refined, in its own way, he likes to think.

He comes here to think, to escape. Lose himself in the endless patterns of repeating blocks, putting one foot in front of the other, eating up the sidewalk with no aim. He goes in circles and never sees the same person twice. He’s anonymous. Nobody.

He could disappear.

It’s comforting, knowing he isn’t special. There’s a kind of relief that comes with being a cog in the machine. You don’t have to worry about the bigger things—those are all someone else’s problem. You just worry about what’s in front of you, about your little pixel in the big picture. Who cares about the rest of the world, anyway?

He enters the convenience store. This is his favorite part.

He watches someone else do his job. Ringing up customers, offering bags, rattling off totals and “Your change is $3.75, ma’am.”

He likes being on the other side of the counter. It’s his guilty little secret, these moments where he gets to be one of the faceless Others that pass by.

Another man steps up to the counter. He’s in a three-piece suit, hair slicked back. He has a thick accent. Will can tell by the soft edges to the vowels as he murmurs to the clerk. He looks at the cup of cheap coffee in his hand, inspecting it as though looking for deformities, before placing it on the counter.

The clerk rattles off the price, and he slides a credit card over. Will is faintly amused. Does he not carry cash?

The man glances at the clerk’s name tag, before looking over his shoulder and directly at Will. 

His eyes are dark, and glitter like red amber. Meeting them is like a splash of ice-cold water to the face. Like waking up.

“Will,” he says.

* * *

“Will.”

“Will?”

Will startles. He looks up. It’s Mr. Crawford, a regular.

“Sorry, uh… Must’ve spaced out or somethin’.”

Mr. Crawford nods.

“That’s all right, Will. How have you been?”

Will looks at him quizzically, wondering why he bothered to ask. “I’m doing just fine, sir. Would that be all?”

Mr. Crawford seems to consider saying something for a moment, mouth opening and closing briefly.

“That’ll be all. Thank you, Will.”

Will nods and watches him go until the bell attached to the door stops jingling.

* * *

** _NEW CRIMINAL REHABILITATION PROGRAM DECLARED A SUCCESS_ **, the headline proclaims.

_ Good for them, _Will thinks, genuinely.

Even criminals deserve second chances, he thinks. Everyone does. For example: this morning, he dropped a cup of coffee. He would’ve been able to prevent the spill, if a customer hadn’t walked through the door at the same time. Will likes to think he deserved a second shot at that moment, if only to spare his pants the coffee stain.

And besides, he can’t think of anything more blissful than having your mind blanked. That’s how _ he’s _lived his life, after all. Blissfully blank. Wonderfully dull. Extraordinarily mundane. And he’s gotten by just fine so far, hasn’t he?

It’s ironic, however, that this headline is buried beneath another.

** _CHESAPEAKE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN_ **, the front page proclaims.

Will wonders if the Ripper is anything like him. If he simply gets up to all these extracurricular activities because he hasn’t been able to fight his way past the boredom, hasn’t been able to figure out the trick to appreciating an existence within the exquisitely liminal space of complete and utter anonymity. He pities him. Existence is much easier when you don’t worry about having a why. There is no why. There’s only you. Who needs the why, anyway?

Why’s come with emotions. Burdens. Like this, Will is light. Free.

Well, as free as he can be from behind the counter, that is.

But that’s okay. What else would he do if he weren’t behind the counter? After all, he’s a man with no why. He’s content, right here, surrounded by convenience store snacks, gum, tic-tacs, lighters. 

There’s nothing else out there for him, anyway. Might as well stay.

* * *

Will is behind the counter when he comes in again.

“It is very clean here,” the man in the suit says. Will startles at the sound of his voice, looks around, and realizes he could be addressing no one other than him.

“I like cleanliness,” Will says.

“So do I. Perhaps I should have said…sterile.”

Will frowns. He tries to see things from the other man’s point of view. He looks over the buildings, down the street, the orderly array of cars. The organization of boxes and squares within boxes and squares, mixed with unthreatening, rounded corners. For a moment his world seemed to shrink, cage-like. Everything shifts minutely, like he’s standing just left of himself. He feels the creeping static of an oncoming headache descend upon him, and he rubs absently at his temple.

Then he blinks, and everything is back to where it was.

“What else do you like, Will?”

Will wonders. What does he like?

_ Like is a strong word, _ he thinks.

“I sometimes prefer some things over others,” he non-answers.

“Hmm,” the man hums. “Red or blue?”

Will thinks for a moment.

“Blue,” he says, but once he says it, it feels like a lie.

The corner of the man’s eyes crinkle.

“Hot or cold?”

“Weather, or coffee?”

“Must it be one or the other?”

Will scratches at his beard.

“Hot weather, hot coffee,” he says.

“Dogs or—”

“Dogs.”

The man chuckles. Will feels affronted. What’s so funny? So he likes dogs.

Perhaps like isn’t so strong a word after all. 

“What is it about dogs that you like so much?”

Will scuffs his shoe against the ground, shrugging noncommittally.

“Dunno. They always seem so...happy, I guess. Uncomplicated joy. I like that.”

“Joy is often much more complex for humans,” the man agrees. “Rarely do we ever let ourselves simply enjoy what we are given. Joy, expectation, desire, fulfillment—”

“It’s all intertwined,” Will finishes for him. “Tainted, in a way.”

“If only one were a dog,” the man says. “If only joy were not a commodity that needed to be earned. What a world that would be.”

“What a world,” Will agrees.

“What about love, Will?”

Will frowns at the question.

“What about it?”

“You find ‘like’ to be a strong word. What about love?”

The corner of Will’s mouth pulls ruefully into a momentary half-smile.

“Love is as complicated as it gets, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” the man steps closer, in front of him. “It is people that are complicated. But love? Love is freely given. It goes where it wants with no ulterior motives or desires of its own. It is free to be. Out of our control. And therefore—simple. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

The man’s eyes are gentle. He tilts his head just so, to catch Will’s eyes. His smile softens the planes of his face, and for a moment, Will’s breath catches. The rumble of cars passing by is drowned out by the rush of blood in his veins, a gust of wind brushes past them, disturbing the still, bright air.

“I suppose,” Will says. “I wouldn’t know.”

The man’s eyes flicker, and Will has the strangest feeling. A compulsion to reach out and touch his face. But why would he do that?

“Wouldn’t you?”

Will looks at him, shocked to silence. The idea of having been in love before feels so preposterous, so contradictory to Will Graham’s existence, that somehow the idea never even occurred to him. 

(Distantly, the sound of cars breaking, screeching to a halt.)

Will laughs, awkwardly.

“I think I’d remember, if that were the case.”

The curve of the man’s lips is sly, the twinkle in his eye devious. “Well then, I suppose I must help you re-remember.”

Will can’t help but look away, hiding a small blush.

“You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

The man shrugs. “I believe in breaking off more than one can chew. Life is the only meal that is meant to be a mouthful. Its taste cannot be savored otherwise.”

“I think I’m more of a bite-sized kinda guy,” Will replies. “But thanks.”

The man tips his head in acknowledgement, gracefully bowing out.

“Well, then. I’ll be seeing you, Will.”

“Yeah. See you around,” Will replies, and watches the man go.

* * *

Mr. Crawford seems agitated today. Maybe a bit tired, too. But there’s a sharpness in his eyes, a kind of determined focus. He studies Will intently, searching.

It makes something inside of Will prickle with unease, something forgotten that pushes at the seams of his mind. The headache from before has bloomed into a dull throb behind his eyes.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Mr. Crawford takes off his hat and steps forward. The motion is guileless, but it feels threatening anyway.

“What do you think of the recent murders, Will?”

Will blinks.

“The Chesapeake Ripper murders, sir?”

“Yes. You must have some thoughts about them.”

_ Not really, _Will thinks. He reads through the papers because he gets bored, but he doesn’t absorb much. He just likes the rhythm of words parading through his mind, the calming roteness that sounds out the vowels, slides around the consonants, pauses at the punctuation in a voiceless fashion at the back of his head.

“I guess if he decided to come for me, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

“Is that so? You wouldn’t fight back?”

Will shrugs.

“The best I can do is try not to give anyone a reason to kill me. I try my best to be polite.”

Not every customer deserves it, but well. Will remains unfazed by most of it, anyway. It’s almost amusing, watching their mounting irritation in the face of his unflappable affect.

Something about what Will said gives Mr. Crawford a pause.

“Well, then I suppose I have the Chesapeake Ripper to thank for your hospitality,” he says.

“I suppose so.”

Mr. Crawford moves forward, allowing Will to ring him up.

“Thank you, Will,” Mr. Crawford says, as he always does. Will nods, as he always does.

The bell jingles. Mr. Crawford leaves.

Will is left alone, again, afternoon light shining dully through dirty windows and glinting off the counters.

* * *

_ Plink. _

Will wanders through the aisles, aimless.

_ Plonk. _

He can hear above the whirr of the refrigerators and the faint _ ka-ching _ of the cash register the soft susurrus of indiscernible words.

_ Plink. _

“Searching for something?”

Will jumps. He turns, and the man is there. He is a block of saturated color against faded surroundings, effortlessly drawing Will’s attention towards him. His tie shimmers—satin? Silk? The opulent elegance of it all clashes with the chips behind him, the stacks of Gatorade. 

“Back again?”

“It would appear so.”

Will jerks his head in acknowledgement and self-consciously steps back, maintaining a polite distance between them.

“Yeah, I uh,” he clears his throat, “just searching for the leak.”

_ Plink. Plonk. Plink. _

The sound of dripping water continues.

“Ah.” The man tucks his hands behind him, as though he were browsing an art gallery. Only look, no touch. He glances around. “I don’t see any water stains,” he comments.

Will nods. “Hopefully I’ll get to it before that happens.” 

“Maybe I can help.”

“Oh, no. No, I can’t let a customer help me with this. That’d be unprofessional.”

“Then I will simply walk beside you as I browse the goods this establishment has to offer.”

Will can’t help it—he laughs.

_ Plink. Plonk. Plink. Plonk. Plink. _

“Stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Only as much as you are.”

The remnants of Will’s laughter clings to the space around them like soap film. Flimsy. Breathe wrong, and the bubble will pop.

“And how would you know that?”

The man reaches out, brushing a curl off of Will’s forehead.

“It’s in your eyes.”

The corners of Will’s mouth tighten. He isn’t sure if he’s holding back a smile or a frown.

“My eyes,” he repeats, dubious.

“Yes,” the man says. “Your eyes are deep and clear. And inside them, the relentless flow of water over the turning earth. You are stubborn the way the world-spin is stubborn. You are the only force that can counteract the momentum of your own movement, the inertia of your own stasis.”

_ Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. _

Will breaks eye contact, realizing with a start that they’d stopped moving, caught as he was under the spell of the man’s gaze.

“I’m not free of influence. No one is.”

“Yes. But what I say is still true. You are the only one who can help you, now, Will Graham.”

Outside, the shadow of clouds gathering scatter the sunlight.

_ Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. _

* * *

Will picks up the newspaper, and looks. Really looks. From within the folds of the newspaper comes another, smaller subscription. _ Tattlecrime, _ the title reads. Written by someone named Freddie Lounds.

Will’s boss likes her writing, so a copy of its issue always manages to find its way into Will’s reading stack.

He picks it up, and his senses are immediately assaulted by the photo on the front page. There are details that the standard, local newspaper doesn’t have—details that paint a picture in Will’s mind with broad, bold strokes. His head pounds, his vision swims. He has to grip the counter with one of his hands to stay upright.

The man’s chest is split open, broken ribs splayed out, baring the cavity of his chest. Where the heart should be is a daisy. It only has one petal left on it.

_ He loves me, he loves me not, _Will thinks.

_ He loves me. _

Something curdles in his gut. A stolen heart, a declaration of love.

The man’s eyes are sewn shut, his hands tied in place over his mouth.

_ My beloved, they have blinded you. Muzzled you. But a part of you will always belong to me. And I will consume you. _

_ You are mine. _

Will can hear the Ripper in his head, almost. His voice comes to him like his own absent thoughts, forgotten and then filtered through the staticky process of remembrance.

_ Come back to me. _

Will snaps his eyes open and drops the newspaper.

What was _ that? _ It was like—like he _ knew— _

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

Whatever that was, it won’t happen again, he’s sure of it. A freak occurrence. Whatever that was, it wasn’t him. Not Will Graham, single, middle-aged convenience store cashier, who lives in a converted living room on a quarter of the rent.

_ This is not who I am, _ Will thinks to himself.

_ But if this is not who you are, _ the Ripper’s voice whispers, _ then who are you? Do you know? _

The headache has evolved into a full-on migraine. Will resolves to pick up some painkillers after work.

* * *

Will nearly trips when he sees it.

A single flower, growing up through a tiny crack in the sidewalk.

It’s disorienting to see this little piece of life within the sterile (_ sterile? When did he start thinking of it that way?) _environment of the white and grey city blocks.

He is struck by an image of the flower’s roots spreading beneath the concrete and tar, into the earth, breaking up the soil. Stretching out further and further, until more and more squeeze their way between the tiny, minute imperfections of the cement. Until they can worm their way up towards the sun, reaching like so many fingers, bursting through the thin veneer of monotony that keeps things stable and in balance. Wounding the metropolis. Overtaking it. The root system like a network of veins, a racing infection.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Will just barely keeps himself from startling this time. He knows, without looking, that the man from before is here again. Him and his three-piece, patterned suits and impeccable hair. His dark eyes and unfathomable stare. Already, his voice is imprinted in Will’s mind, fresh ink on a white page.

So many things seem to be leaving their marks upon him, lately.

“It’s not supposed to be here.”

“And yet it found a way to survive, anyway. And that is beautiful, is it not?”

The sun is high in the sky, their shadows murky pools beneath their feet. A breeze brushes past, disturbing the flower so it sways.

It’s a daisy.

“Are _ you _ supposed to be here, Will?”

Will looks over his shoulder, at the convenience store and its unlit neon sign, its racks of products, the shuffling in and out of customers, the whir of the slushie machine, the uncomfortable stool he sits on all day and—

He realizes he doesn’t really want to be there. To be fair, he never did, but he always went because that’s where he was told to go.

Now, he feels restless.

He looks down at the daisy, the destructive, out-of-place, harbinger-of-possible-doom daisy, and wishes he too could turn his face up to the sun and bloom, rising out of the dull cement.

But where? Where would he go, if not here? It feels as though the daisy has rooted itself in him. Invaded his senses. He yearns for the light, for air. 

Will raises his face and closes his eyes. The sun stains his vision flesh-red.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“The question you should be asking is what can I do for you, now that I’m here?”

“Okay. What can you do for me, now that you’re here?”

The man smiles.

“I might give you my name.”

Will waits, expectant. When it becomes clear that the man is not going to offer it, he huffs.

“That’s it?”

“You already know it.”

Will scoffs. There’s a rushing in his ears. He feels overheated, like a hot-air balloon. His forehead feels as though it’s about to split open.

“Well, obviously, I don’t. If I did, then I’ve forgotten it.”

“Just so.”

Will is just about done with mind games. He’s about to say so when a harsh, chill wind billows past, sinking into his bones. He shivers.

“It seems there is a storm on the horizon,” the man remarks. “What will you do when it arrives, I wonder?”

Will throws up his hands in exasperation.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answers. “Maybe I’ll go out and find the Ripper! It’s none of your business.”

“Yes,” the man agrees. “I suppose that would be between you and the Ripper.”

* * *

Will wonders why they call him the Ripper when he doesn’t destroy or rip.

He paints, stitches. Takes things apart and then rearranges the pieces, adding his own flair to create something new.

He doesn’t know how he knows this, except that it isn’t really a knowing, but a feeling. A feeling, like how he feels the longing in the Ripper’s artwork. Like how he feels the love radiating from those grainy Tattlecrime pictures, the lonely daisy and its lonely petal sitting pristine in a chest torn open.

What kind of person must the Ripper be, to feel a love so strongly?

What kind of person could inspire something so grotesquely beautiful? So blindingly pure?

Will had never been one for fantasies or daydreams, but he thinks about it. He thinks about what it must be like to be so taken with another person that everything you do becomes for them, about them, in honor of them. He thinks about what it must be like to hold someone’s affections so strongly, to be desired that wildly. He thinks about it as he scans items, rattles off totals, counts change. As he sweeps the floors, fixes a shelf of chips that some teenagers had knocked into. He thinks about it as he goes through his boring, mundane job. He thinks about it as people’s eyes look past his face, glaze over without reading his nametag.

“Hello, Will,” Mr. Crawford says.

“Hello, sir.”

He has a bottle of water and a pack of gum today.

“Your total is $4.50,” Will tells him.

“Thank you, Will,” Mr. Crawford says.

Will realizes that Mr. Crawford may be one of the only people in the entire world that might notice the absence of one Will Graham. The realization bothers him in a way that didn’t before. Something within him begs him to reach out, to connect.

“Mr. Crawford—” Will calls out, unsure of why he did.

“Jack,” Mr. Crawford corrects.

“Jack,” Will repeats. He pauses. “You asked me a question the other day.”

Jack turns back around, slowly, and fixes Will with a slow, considering look.

“About the Ripper murders?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

Will opens his mouth, then frowns, unsure of what he’d wanted to say.

“What…what do you think of them? About the murders, I mean. You asked me, but I never asked you.”

Jack barely even blinks before answering, “I think they need to be stopped.”

Will’s skin prickles, an uncomfortable heat creeping under his skin. It’s a typical answer. The right answer. The answer he should have been expecting. He doesn’t know why he feels…

He feels angry.

Something must’ve shown on his face, because Jack steps back inside from where he’d been about to cross the threshold out the door.

“Do you…know something, Will?”

For some reason, Will got the distinct feeling that that was not what Jack really wanted to ask.

“No,” he says, but it’s a lie.

He knows the Ripper is in love. He knows the Ripper is sending messages to someone. Do the police know that? Someone must have figured it out—it can’t have just been Will. Will isn’t extraordinary in any way, and everything about that body was _ so obvious. _It had screamed at him. It was poignant. Arresting.

Will wants to know if Jack knows who the body is for. He doesn’t know why he thinks Jack would know, but he wants to ask.

Instead, he asks, “Does the Ripper have a partner?”

The silence is heavy as Will does everything he can to avoid Jack’s calculating stare.

“Yes,” Jack says. “He does. But they were apprehended some time ago.”

Will looks up, eyes wide.

“They caught the Ripper’s partner?”

_ What kind of person are they? _ Will wants to ask. _ What are they like? Who? Who are they? _

“How did you know he had a partner?”

Will shrugs and shuffles his feet.

“I just…knew.”

“You just knew.”

Will wonders how he ever mistook Jack Crawford for anything other than a cop.

“It—the body. It’s a message. To somebody. To his partner.”

“What does it say?”

Will feels an outrage welling up inside of him. As if anyone has the right to ask that. As if something like that could be articulated in words, nevertheless spoken about in casual conversation. Something of that depth, something that precious, something that _ private— _ the _ gall. _

He shrugs.

“What does it say, Will?”

“I don’t know.” His tone is petulant, sullen.

“Will, if you…know something,” there’s that pause again, “you are obligated to come forth with it.”

Obligated? By what? By whom?

“There’s nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” Will reaffirms, and finds the question rather ridiculous.

Jack works his jaw. His eyes glitter as he studies Will more closely.

“You haven’t...remembered anything recently?”

Will instinctively knows that this is the question Jack had been dodging before.

“Remembered anything? What would I remember?”

Remembering implies forgetting. What has he forgotten? And how would Jack know if he had? Unbidden, he thinks of the nameless man. He can see him now, standing just over there.

Jack’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Nothing at all, Will,” he echoes.

It’s Will’s turn to be frustrated—a foreign feeling for him. He finds himself losing patience, which before he’d had bounds and bounds of. 

“What is it that you’re afraid I’m going to remember?”

Because that’s what he reads in Jack’s eyes. Fear. 

“That’s what I’d like _ you _ to tell _ me, _Will.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Will retorts. “How am I supposed to tell you what I’ve forgotten?”

Will is barely holding onto his composure. Jack’s face has lost the peaceful blankness of a stranger. He is overwhelmingly, frighteningly familiar. Will has to keep himself from flinching from his gaze. He feels the urge to cover himself, to duck away, and in his panic, he reaches up to adjust glasses that aren’t there. Jack watches the motion with a critical eye. He doesn’t answer Will’s question. He simply tips his hat, turns, and leaves.

Will knows he’ll be back.

* * *

He’s behind the counter, again, waiting for something other than the clock ticking to happen. It’s cleaner than it would otherwise be, all the shelves fully stocked. Neat, orderly rows. The white buildings outside are blinding in the sun.

It’s the man again. He comes up to Will with another cup of shitty, cheap coffee.

“$1.50,” Will tells him.

“How have you been, Will?”

Will wishes the man would move on. Whenever he’s here something strange happens. He doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want any more disturbances. He can feel danger on the horizon, and the man’s presence is like the rumble of distant thunder.

“Fine,” he answers, curt.

“Just fine?”

“Just fine,” he repeats.

“That won’t do.”

Will gives him a puzzled look, before realizing his mistake. Their eyes lock. Something cold trickles down the back of Will’s neck.

“Do you have a problem?” he asks.

“No,” the man says, “but you should be striving for a life that is better than ‘just fine’, Will. Don’t you want more than what you’ve given yourself here?”

“This suits me—”

“—just fine, I know.” The man seems amused at Will’s grunt of displeasure. From outside, there’s the distant sound of a dog barking. Will’s headache grows. He resists the urge to rifle through his pockets for an Aspirin.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Will,” he tells Will. “And you might want to get that fixed. I believe we’ve finally found your problem.”

Will turns to look at what the man points at, and curses.

There’s the leak. Water, trickling from the edges of the ceiling, coming down in a clear drape across his wall.

“What the—” he says, and turns back around, to find that the man is already gone, leaving his exact change on the counter. Will hadn’t heard the doorbell jingle. He looks out into the bright daylight outside, searching for the man’s figure walking away, but sees nothing but white. In his place lingers nothing but the faint scent of daisies.

* * *

“Excuse me? Hello?”

Will blinks at the woman waving a hand in front of her face.

Oh.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says and scans her items.

“Your total is $7.57.”

The woman gives him a funny look but pays and accepts her change.

Will sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s hard to think past the constant pain in his head. 

That usually doesn’t happen. He doesn’t usually get so lost in his mind that he misses a customer standing right in front of him. But it’s happened twice, now, in just a few days.

_ Get a grip, _ he tells himself. _ Do your fucking job. It’s not that hard. _

After he wrangles his frustration under control, he turns around to look at the wall behind him.

It’s completely dry, no water.

* * *

Will walks his usual path down the street. Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead.

There’s a flash of color from out the corner of his eye. He turns to look and sees a dog. Its coat is brindle, and it has cute, floppy ears. Will smiles and crouches down in front of it.

“Hey there, buddy,” he says and holds out a hand. The dog noses at his hand and looks up at him with a happy dog smile. Will grins back.

“He’s waiting for his owner to return,” the man says. Will doesn’t startle this time.

The dog has no collar. But Will doesn’t contest the man’s statement—he simply observes the way the dog remains sitting where he is, thumping its tail against the ground. The man is probably right.

“He’s a good boy,” Will says, instead, determined not to let the man ruin this for him.

“That he is.” The man steps forward and offers a sausage, which the dog snaps up happily.

“Yeah,” Will says, running his hands through the thick fur at the dog’s neck, “you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

He laughs as the dog licks his face, at the smell of dog breath and the feel of the dog’s floppy ear under his fingers.

Will wishes he could take him home. But he can’t—the dog is waiting for someone. His apartment complex doesn’t allow pets. He has roommates.

“All right,” Will says, regret coloring his tone. “Bye now, Winston.”

“Winston?”

Will stiffens in defense. “He might have an owner, but until they come back I can call him what I want, right? He likes it, anyway. Don’t you, Winston?”

Winston lets out a short bark in response. Will grins in triumph, before straightening.

“Where to now?” The man asks. “Will you continue walking in circles?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not coming with me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Then make me go away.”

Will grits his teeth.

“Just—don’t follow me.”

The man gives him a gracious nod and another enigmatic smile and steps up next to Winston.

“I’ll just wait here, until you come back around, then.”

Will huffs, and continues.

Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead.

* * *

Will feels pretty tired by the time he gets back. Which is why it’s such a surprise when one of his roommates, Bev, greets him with, “Why are _ you _ so happy?”

Will pauses. Happy? Him?

“Saw a dog today,” he answers.

Bev crosses her arms and gives him a once-over with her eyes, before snorting.

“Yeah, that _ would _ have you acting all giddy, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not _ giddy,” _he grumbles.

“Yeah you are.” She grins. “Or at least you’re...different.”

Will shrugs. He _ feels _ different. The fact that others can tell discomfits him.

Will likes Bev. Price is okay, too. Zeller hates his guts. But that’s what you put up with when you can’t afford rent on your own and are forced to take the cheapest spot in the living room.

All in all, it’s not an ideal situation, but it’s not that terrible, either. Even if he feels like the other three are in on something he isn’t. Even if it sometimes feels less like being with roommates and more like being on lockdown. He always has the strangest feeling that they’re monitoring him, watching him. But nothing ever happens. He never does anything out of ordinary, and so he’s left well enough alone. That’s how Will likes it. He doesn’t know where his paranoia comes from, but it’s just another reason to keep his head down and his nose clean, just as he should.

“Did it have a name?”

“Hmm?”

“The dog. Did it have a name?”

Will shrugs.

“I called him Winston.”

Bev pauses.

“Winston, huh? Nice name.”

Will smiled, soft, remembering the feel of warm fur under his fingers.

“He’s a good dog.”

* * *

“Your total is $5.45.”

“Your total is $18.27.”

“Your total is $7.89.”

_ The monotony of work is calming, _Will says to himself.

“Calming isn’t the word I’d use,” he can hear the man’s voice in his head, saying. “Maybe it’s time for a break.”

Will shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts. Another customer walks up to him.

“Your total is $8.42.”

_ The monotony of work is calming, _ he repeats to himself. _ Calming. _

* * *

Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead.

Will walks in circles, the same blocks, over and over and over again. He’s familiar with these buildings, with these sights. With Winston, sitting in the same place, wagging his tail, waiting. With the convenience store in the south-east corner, and his guilty pleasure of stopping every now and then to watch someone else behind the counter.

Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead. Right turn, walk ahead.

Gradually, the uniform, white buildings blur behind him. They collapse, tear, and fall apart, revealing in their wake the deep, dark earth. Will walks around it, remaining on the sidewalk, just circling. Looking in from every angle.

The body lies there, as though it were fresh. Stitches over the eyes. Hands tied over the mouth. Open chest cavity. Daisy set in the center.

He walks his route, cutting the corners further and further until his path is less rectangular and more ovular. Then circular.

Winston is smiling happily at him when he steps up to the body, finally stopping. The world seems to turn and twist beneath his feet, the rote movement he’d accustomed himself to catching up to him.

Will feels a strange protectiveness over the body, a kind of possessiveness. So he’s surprised by how calm he is when the man brushes his fingers over the stitched eyes, kneeling.

“Love is blind,” the man says.

“Not all love,” Will says. “Some loves can be eye-opening.”

Will Graham has never been in love before, and yet he knows this with a certainty that feels grounded, rooted in a way that nothing else ever has.

The man’s smile starts from his eyes before his lips curl up over fanged teeth. He looks delighted, adoring. Will wonders if that’s the sort of expression a man in love would make.

The man steps over the body, close to Will. His hand is cool on Will’s cheek.

“Remember, Will. Remember who you are. And come back to me.”

* * *

_ Remember who you are. _

_ Come back to me. _

The words echo in Will’s head, shattered pieces to mull over, to put back together.

They feel important, somehow. 

(Like they have the potential to be...eye-opening.)

He’s still pondering, when the bell on the door jingles.

Jack is back again. He eyes Will warily, before stepping up to the counter. He isn’t carrying anything. He isn’t here to buy. Will decides he’s going to need something to fortify himself, so he shakes out two pills and swallows them dry. Jack watches, assessing him with a critical eye.

“How are you, Will?”

Will bites back the automatic, “Fine”.

_ You should be striving for a life that is better than ‘just fine’, Will. _

“Good. I’m good,” he says instead. “Just a headache. How are you, Jack?”

Despite having asked Will to call him that, Jack narrows his eyes at the casual address, at the easy way it slips off his tongue.

“Anything new happening in your life?”

“Not really, no.”

“Really,” Jack says in a skeptical tone. “Heard through the grapevine that you’ve been in a better mood lately.”

Will stiffens. He must’ve spoken to Bev.

“Am I being investigated, sir?”

“Should I be investigating you, Will?”

Will curls his hands into fists by his sides.

“If you aren’t here to buy anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Jack.”

“I think I’ll take my time browsing, if it’s all the same to you.”

“What have I done that has you so scared, Jack?”

“Nothing, Will. You’ve just been you, as you always are.”

Will leans forward on the counter. Jack does not move back.

“And who would that be?”

Jack cocks his head. “I’d like to know as well. Who, exactly, is Will Graham?”

“You know something,” Will probes, pieces falling before him.

Jack nods. “I know a lot of things.”

“About me?” Will guesses. After all, why else would Jack be here?

“That too.” 

Will resists the urge to slam a fist down.

“Then what are you here for?”

“Nothing, I’m hoping.”

The pieces click.

“Memories,” Will says. “You were afraid, before, that I’d remembered something. And before that, you asked me about the Ripper.”

Jack stiffens.

“So you _ have _ remembered something. If you tell me what it is, now, you might still have a chance.”

“A chance? A chance at what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

This time Will does slam a fist down. “I’m not playing dumb! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you want with me. You come here expecting me to know things, and then you get angry when you think I do. Leave, Jack. I don’t know what it is that you think I can give you, but you won’t be getting it. Not today.”

Jack narrows his eyes, but steps back. Puts his hat back on his head.

“You take care, now, Will,” he says, but Will hears it for the warning that it is.

* * *

Will paces back and forth on the sidewalk. The white buildings swim around him, wavering. They seem too thin, like mirages hovering over a desert.

Now that his attention has been brought to it, over and over again, Will can’t look away. He is overly aware of the blankness crowding his mind. The utterly smooth, featureless splotch of _ nothing _ that swathes a portion of his memory. He’s missing something. Something important. But what?

A family? A lover? Friends? All of the above? 

What is supposed to occupy this emptiness? A name tickles the back of his throat, just out of reach. 

The man’s words come to mind. 

_ You already know it _.

_ Remember, Will. Remember who you are. _

But that can’t be right.

The man isn’t real.

Neither is Winston.

Neither is any of this.

This is just—his escape. His happy place. His little oasis of calm.

Everything begins to shake around him.

The white, stucco buildings seem to crumple around him. Like paper. There’s a distant rumbling noise. A shadow approaches, and Will turns to watch it, before looking up.

A giant wave of water crests, slow motion through the city. It is wiping everything away. The blacktop, the cars, the buildings, the sidewalks. Will stares, open-mouthed, as it approaches. The roar of water sounds like the clamor of voices, and they are all screaming the same thing.

The same name.

The second before the water hits him, he looks up and catches sight of the sun, glinting through the foam.

“Hannibal,” he breathes, and is dragged under.

* * *

Will grips the counter with sweaty hands, chest heaving. He looks around wildly—no customers in sight. Good.

He grabs his jacket, hands shaking. His legs feel unsteady, everything in him is screaming at him to _ go, go, go. _Get out. Leave this place. This awful, awful place.

The distance between the counter and the door seems to expand, tunnel beneath his feet. A high pitched buzzing fills his ears as he reaches for the door handle. He watches himself press his hands against the metal bar, jaw dropped in disbelief, and— 

Sound. The honking of cars, the call of voices, the eternal city thrum.

The warmth of the sun, hitting his face. 

He breathes in, lungs lighting up. 

The door swings shut behind him. And with it, this blank chapter of his life.

He stumbles out, not even bothering to lock the door or call in someone to take over his shift. He just walks. Out. Away. Somewhere.

_ Never again, _ he thinks to himself, not looking back. He is done. There’s no turning back now.

* * *

The water is cool, cleansing. He smiles as it washes him away, along with the rest of the debris. His headache is gone. He can think clearly now. The absence of pain lifts, decompresses, and instead he is filled with an airy clarity, a swell of purpose.

Will feels freer than he ever has before.

He feels like himself.

After what seems like an eternity, he bumps gently into a rock. He climbs out and looks out over the stream that gurgles over the rocks and between the trees.

“I used to come here to fish,” Will says, breathlessly.

Hannibal steps up next to him, his suit infuriatingly neat, Winston at his side. Will wants to dunk him in the water too, mess him up. He wants to kiss him. He wants to _ remember _ him, all over again. Hannibal smiles at him like he knows what he’s thinking.

“Do you know how many cups of subpar, dollar-fifty coffee I had to endure before you got a clue?”

“Oh, shut up,” Will huffs. “You aren’t even real.”

“Yes, I am.”

Will kneels next to Winston, scratching behind his ears.

“Yeah, I know. But not here. This you is mine, and mine alone.”

Hannibal inspects the clump of daisies growing between the rocks.

“Will you come find me, Will?”

Will nods, then grins.

“You went through so much trouble to send me that message, after all.”

“Best not keep me waiting, then.”

* * *

Will Graham, ex-convenience store worker, ex-rehabilitated criminal, ex-FBI consultant, possible serial killer at large, and murder husband to one Hannibal Lecter, emerges into the screeching cacophony of the metropolis. The _ real _city, filled with people, with life. With dirt, soot, trash, and throw-away paper bags. Not the travesty that his mind palace had turned into after the government brainwashing.

He needs a car, a disguise. A way to buy time. Jack must not be far behind. He already had suspicions.

Perhaps, a way to send a message back.

“I’m coming for you, Hannibal,” he promises, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “Wait for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> u can find me on twitter [@nise_kazura](https://twitter.com/nise_kazura)! feel free to scream at me abt hannibal


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